


Mother

by Artemis-M (dicyfer)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, breakdown - Freeform, movie augmentation, the dark world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicyfer/pseuds/Artemis-M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He barely pays any attention to the solemn-faced guard that approaches his cell. He has no idea that he, master of words, is about to be destroyed by a single sentence, stiffly delivered by a stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother

**Author's Note:**

> So I was in Russia and didn't get to see Thor 2 until 5 hours ago and basically I'm not okay.

It settles in his stomach gently, reverently. A new and vaguely uncomfortable weight pushing aside all the others in one delicate swoop.

It hurts.

He sets the book down slowly, heart beating its same slow beat, though now each pulse feels as if it will shatter his chest. There is not enough room to breathe. There is not enough room to see. He is standing now, unwilled.

It _hurts_.

He feels his face stretching into a strange smile as he stares unseeingly at the white walls of his prison. A little smile, he doesn’t know why. A little grin, an excruciating pull across his features. It’s _irritating_. He’s just so _irritated_ by everything. A manic frustration explodes suddenly in his chest and in a quick burst he lets it free. The furniture flies away from him though he hardly notices, because the weight in his stomach becomes unbearable, and gives itself a name.

Mother.

_Mother._

The despicable part of himself that never stops calculating has just enough time to throw up an illusion of calm before a whimper escapes his mouth. It is a small thing, forced through his clenched teeth and barely audible. But it repeats itself, and grows, and grows, and then his hands fly up to his face, the grin collapses and turns to a snarl, and he _screams_.

Distantly he can hear the furniture slamming again into the walls of his cell. The shattering of wood feels inadequate. He feels swallowed by the need for destruction. There is a part of him that is trying desperately to cling to that word: _mother_ , but it is being drowned. For the first time in his thousands of years he can’t _think_. Who is that woman? He can’t--

_violence._

He collapses to the floor and lets shockwave after shockwave pulse from his body, further splintering every tender object allowed in his cell while still any outsiders are none the wiser. But it is not enough. Another scream rips from his throat as he begins to tear at anything he can get his hands on: his clothes, his books, anything just to quench the rage. The heavy thud of his heart has long since turned to a frantic stutter, his breaths are shallow and with each exhale he moans, screams, laughs a broken sound which feels as if it is splintering his sanity even further.

He can taste blood, can even see it in the smears of red that have begun to cross his blurry vision. There’s no pain though, and he hates it. Where is the _pain?_ He stands so quickly his vision blanks, but recovers just in time to send a viscous kick into the remains of a bookshelf. Shards of wood imbed themselves in his foot and for one gentle moment he forgets the rage and is overcome entirely by the bright pain traveling up his body. It fades quickly however, and the rage returns.

He destroys himself a little bit at a time. Magic no longer careening out of control, all destruction is pure physical violence. He can think of nothing but tearing everything, _everything_ to shreds. His hands are bloodied, chunks ripped from his knuckles.

Eventually a numbness begins to grow. He begins to slow. His limbs feel heavy, they are shaking uncontrollably. He trips over his injured foot and falls to the floor. He only picks himself up out of habit. With exhaustion diminishing his capacity for violence, he pushes himself up to a wall and leans against it, hands falling to his sides and grasping at the air. He sits for a few seconds and feels nothing, can barely even comprehend the destruction that surrounds him or the blood slowly crusting across his skin.

Everything is quiet. He isn’t even breathing.

And then he feels something inside him break, something delicate and small. He whimpers, slowly wraps his arms around his waist, bows his head, and begins to cry.


End file.
